


A Twist of Fate

by str4yk1tt3n



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: F/M, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-04-06
Updated: 2012-04-12
Packaged: 2017-11-03 03:50:52
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 30
Words: 12,642
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/376878
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/str4yk1tt3n/pseuds/str4yk1tt3n
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>What might of happened if Sherlock hadn't met John when he did?  What might have happened if, instead, he met Jim?</p><p>Lots of chapters, but most of them very short.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

Somewhere in London, a man is waiting for a train.

Due to a some niggly detail that no one but some low-ranking technician will probably ever really know about, or understand, or even, for that matter, care about beyond the effect of the cause, the expected arrival time of half-past-eight comes and goes and the tracks remain empty in the station.

The man continues to wait. He keeps his eyes forward and his shoulders square. He has stood longer vigils than this.

The low-ranking technician is likely being sacked by his superior, after explaining the missing cog or shorted wire or squirrels nesting in the engine. Or perhaps, his supervisor is a kind and forgiving type and knows that he and the missus have finally had success with the baby they've been trying for and that really, the cog or wire or squirrels are something that happened somewhere, anywhere, and certainly not due to any action or inaction on the low-ranking technician's part. You can believe that if it brings you comfort. However, I certainly wouldn't count on it, as it is nearly ten-to-ten when a train finally pours, shrieking and spitting and squealing into the quiet of the station.

The man grimaces at the cacophony, and takes a step forward, leaning heavily on an ugly medical supply cane that, despite how starkly it contrasts against his dark trousers, an observer might be forgiven for not noticing at all; an accessory incongruous with the patient quiet bearing (shoulders square, spine straight, eyes forward, feet slightly apart, standing for over an hour) of the man standing watch for a train for over an hour. Since it is nearly ten in the morning on a week day, and the only people that didn't make alternate travel plans when the train failed to arrive as scheduled are a pair of teens snogging against the far wall and a woman in her sixties dozing over the cloth cat carrier in her lap, the man's painful, limping journey through the door of the train goes unnoticed by much of anyone, so no one wonders at the dichotomy.

The man is shaken out of the roaring metal tube near the hospital at which he first learned to mend failed parts of frail humans. He firms his jaw and takes a breath to prepare for the walk ahead of him, thinking disconsolately of his student days, when he would travel this very route hundreds of times a month without a thought or a twinge, in fair weather and foul, drunk, sober, or on his second day without sleep, but never first having to take a breath to prepare for the walk ahead. He wonders if returning to the walls within which he was so young and fresh faced will make him feel ancient. He rather suspects that it will.

He arrives in the lobby after only one pause for rest on a bench, and speaks to a friendly if flustered young woman who directs him to the area for persons in charge of such things as taking on war-torn alumni as part of London's pit crew to humanity. The offices are, of course, on the far side of the building on the top floor.

After a brief meeting ('Oh yes, your records...we have them here' 'Quite good, quite good - in school you were in the top third, is that correct?' '...just lost someone in A&E, if you're interested...' '...as soon as your service documents arrive, of course...' 'So nice to meet you.' 'We will be in contact soon.') he takes the elevator back down to the main floor, and passes the young woman again on the way out. He nods a greeting, but she is preoccupied, balancing two polystyrene cups of hot coffee while navigating around the burbling brook of humanity wandering in and out of her path. He heads out into the London afternoon sunlight. He has at least two more stops to make before returning to the train, and the ache in his leg is already making him wince every third step.

He doesn't return to the small room in a friend's house until two hours after the sun has set. He is too tired to eat dinner, so he just changes into his worn t-shirt and loose-fitting pajama pants before pulling back the bedspread and letting himself fall onto the firm mattress. He hopes he will be too tired to dream, but of course, he isn't.

The man drifts into violent and troubled slumber. A former low-ranking technician from the railroad tries to figure out how to explain to his remarkably pregnant wife that he isn't quite sure how they will pay their mortgage. A Detective Inspector sighs as a press conference is interrupted repeatedly, via text message. A woman in a pink suit smiles a secret smile as she steps into a waiting cab. A nice young forensic pathologist frowns as she takes meticulous notes on the lividity resulting from post-mortem trauma to a corpse. A tall, pale man wonders (somewhat indifferently), if he will be able to find anyone to split the rent on the flat into which he is in the process of moving his possessions.

None of them contemplate the consequences of delayed public transportation. They have no reason to do so. After all, none of them are aware of how a cog or a wire or a squirrel gone awry can interfere with a chance meeting of old classmates that would lead to a chance meeting of two men in a hospital morgue, which would lead to a borrowed phone and viewing a flat and viewing a crime scene and dinner and running over rooftops and a cab ride and a single shot and a shock blanket.

Instead, the man with the limp (his name is John) hears gunfire in his sleep and cries out, waking his friend in the next room. Instead, the tall pale man (his name is Sherlock) is called to a crime scene where he is barred from contact with the corpse by the lead forensics investigator after some unfortunate elucidation regarding wives and mistresses, and returns to his new flat alone. Instead, a cab picks up the pregnant young wife of a former railroad technician on her way home from a baby shower.

And deep in London's darkest heart, a small, unassuming spider sitting at the center of a glorious web, reaches out.


	2. Chapter 2

Sherlock walked into 221b Baker Street.

No. That wasn't exactly right.

Sherlock  _stormed_  into 221b Baker Street.

Another murder today - a young pregnant woman - and the case was no closer to resolution.

He had been furious the night before, after Anderson and Donovan retaliated for Sherlock's unwanted insights with snide suggestions that Sherlock had personal and private reasons for wanting to touch the body that had nothing to do with solving a murder, but instead with his masturbatory habits. Lestrade, thankfully, knew what idiots those two were and didn't take their remarks to heart (well, almost entirely not) but had suggested that it might be best if Sherlock left anyway, and maybe just worked on the  _Rache_  clue back at his own flat. He was SURE...well, almost sure, anyway, which, for him, was nearly as good as, that if he had just been able to  _examine_  the corpse, he would have been able to get something substantial, something to at least point him in a direction, but instead he had returned to his empty flat and spent hours pacing and going over the meager bits of information he had scavenged thus far.

Now he was... _incensed_.  _Enraged. Maddened_. Donovan had refused to even let him onto the crime scene. Of course, he had attempted to ignore her and walk on anyway, but apparently the hateful woman and her obnoxious forensic boy-toy had gone over Anderson's head and told the Superintendent that he was...inappropriate, and should not be permitted to interfere with crime scenes. Had made allegations regarding his mental state and stability and portrayed his interest in the murders  _profane_. Until further notice he was barred from London police crime scenes. Lestrade, the imbecile, had just shrugged helplessly from beyond the police tape.

Meanwhile, someone was hunting the streets of London and picking off citizens on an almost daily basis. Somehow. Somewhy. No thread he could see yet linking the deaths. No commonality between the victims in age, race, class, gender, appearance, employment, relationships, religious affiliation, or any of the other minutia he had theorized might tie them together. If he could just have  _examined_  the  _bodies_ , the wealth of information he could have collected! Of course, he was, officially, off the case, but if he were to sort it he could at least text Lestrade and let him bring forth the information as though he had arrived at the answer on his own.

Instead, the killer would keep killing and Scottland Yard would sit around on their thumbs mumbling apologetically to the public and-

Sherlock froze in the process of yanking his scarf from around his neck.

Something was different.

What?

The front door mat was slightly skewed...but that could have been Mrs. Hudson stopping up to retrieve the cup and plate from the tea and biscuits she had brought by yesterday evening in (he suspected) a bid to arrest his violin playing. But...there was something...there  _was_...

He breathed very lightly as he examined the area around the door and his eyes returned to the mat twice before he realized what was catching his attention. There was an impression on the mat-a slight impression but visible all the same-from a shoe. It wasn't from his own foot, nor Mrs. Hudson's small kitten healed going out shoes, and her slippers wouldn't have left a print. No, this print, three inches to the left of center and canted slightly inward, toe just touching the decorative border, appeared to be from a man's dress shoe: narrow, not particularly long, but a man's certainly...the depth of imprint and distribution of weight suggested average height or less, weight, same.

He sank to his knees as quietly as he could and brought his face close to the mat. Every-day London dirt...splash of tea...hint of old dog feces...shoe polish (expensive)...and...faint trace of...ammonia.

He had no idea who's shoe print was on his mat. He was 90% certain he was about to find out.

He stood and opened the door without bothering with any nonsense of standing to the side in case of a loaded revolver pointed his way. Whomever was inside would have heard him come up the stairs.

He stepped into the flat.

"Took you long enough," drawled a voice from one of the two armchairs. "I've been waiting for  _ages_." He could only see the back of a dark head. Back to the door. Confidant.

Sherlock carefully hung his coat and scarf on the hooks next to the door, walked to the other armchair and sat down.

Pale skin. Expensive haircut, reserved but with with a modern fashionable choppiness. Dark eyes. Tailored suit and a tie with...were those skulls? Sherlock felt the corner of his mouth twitch in mild amusement, to his surprise. Smooth hands. Manicured nails (professional). The expected black dress shoes, also expensive. Only, there was more...oh. Interesting.

"Sorry for the delay," he said. "I was...reading your calling card. Considerate of you."

"Oh," the man smiled brightly. "Did you like that? I thought about sending a note, but, well, the environment, don't you know? Mustn't waste paper wantonly. And I thought about texting, but it is so impolite to be that familiar with someone to whom one hasn't been formal introduced...at least that's what they used to tell me. And seeing as it was you, I didn't figure you'd need anything that  _obvious_."

"Hmm. No...though more traditional forms of communication do bear the benefit of...letting one know  _whom_  to expect."

"Wouldn't you rather guess?"

Sherlock held the man's gaze for a long moment, considering, then leaned back in his armchair, steepling his fingers. "Well, based on you clothing and your haircut, I'd guess...something in business. The quality of your clothing suggests a position of status or at least power...something that provides well financially and requires a certain formality of attire. However, your tie, your haircut and your suit's designer suggest a company that tries to project a young, slightly rebellious image, so it is unlikely to be something like banking or investments...I would guess it is most likely a powerful company in the field of computers...possibly software development, as more entertainment-based companies tend to be more blatant in dressing 'creatively', and a company dealing with a field like online security wants to present a more dependable, solid face, so the clothing would be more traditionally formal, but without the opulence of a banker or investor.

"Your posture and speech patterns are lazy and uncultured, but intentionally so. You likely didn't grow up poor and crawl your way to the top or you would have striven to imitate someone born with mone...I would guess middle class, and well educated, but becoming wealthy young, and through your own efforts, you see it as license to act as you choose, so you slouch and don't enunciate your words to show your disdain for the conventions of society.

"You have slight callouses on your fingers and keep your nails short, so you spend a fair amount of time typing on a computer and on a smart phone, but you also have two fading electrical burn scars under your right wrist, which, based on the angle and size, are probably from small electronics wiring...which you do as a hobby, rather than a profession."

The man across from Sherlock kept his face neutral. "Anything else?"

Sherlock's eyes flickered over the man again, studying everything from the side on which parted his hair to the position of his the hand on the armrest, to the foot dangling over his knee.

"Yes."

The man's dark eyes flickered with an emotion Sherlock couldn't read. Anticipation? Excitement? Joy? Fear?

"I don't know if a single one of those things is true."

The man smiled.

"You are very intelligent. You know who _I_  am and what  _I_ do. You rubbed a little extra polish into your shoe near the sole to ensure it would rub off  _just a little_ on my front door mat. Not only that, the polish and thus the impression are from what is likely your non-dominant side, from what I can tell. Though people rarely realize it at the time, it is habitual to step through a door with one's dominant foot first. Because it is a natural habit, it is somewhat uncomfortable to do otherwise. But you lead with your non-dominant foot in order to leave the impression you did, to show it was deliberate, and assumed I would read it for what it was. I can not believe that anything I have deduced from what I have seen about you in necessarily true, as any or all of it could be a test, a deception or a misdirection.'

The man was grinning now. "Oh, that was FUN. You really are everything I had hoped you would be."

Sherlock tilted his head slightly, looking at the (still nameless) man across from him in bemusement. "You really think so?"

"Oh absolutely."

"That's a bit different than the reaction I usually get."

"I know. But then, we BOTH know that people are utter idiots at best, and a plague at...very slightly worse."

"Undoubtedly. Are you going to tell me if I was right?"

"Would you believe me either way?"

Sherlock quirked his lips in wry acknowledgment.

The man pulled his phone out of his pocket and glanced at the screen. "Well, it's been lovely chatting, but I really  _must_  pop off now. Next time have the tea on, maybe?" He stood, tugged a few creases in his suit into line and walked out the front door.

Sherlock was still in the same spot, eyes focused sightlessly on the ceiling, steepled fingers pressed against his lips, when his mobile chirped. He picked it up and glanced at the new message.

 _it's jim, by the way. and i mean it about the tea_.

Sherlock smiled.


	3. Chapter 3

The man named John answers his phone.

"Yes, this is John Watson...Yes, yes I did...yes I am...that would be...yes...do you need me to interview?...oh, well then...part time to start?...that isn't quite...oh? Well, that's very generous...I hate to be glad that you have been short handed, but...yes...thank you...next Thursday at nine?...oh, nine  _pm_...yes, yes of course, that's fine, more than fine, I actually prefer...yes, thank you again. Bye."


	4. Chapter 4

Another body. A real estate agent from Surrey.

That was all he knew. All anyone would  _let_  him know. And by  _let_ , he meant 'didn't change their passwords to anything that couldn't be deduced in one try'.

Jim rolled his eyes up to look at Sherlock while sipping his tea.

"They still won't let you on the crime scenes?"

Sherlock stood at the window, glaring out over the street below, arms crossed tightly across his chest. "No."

"So unfair."

"Yes."

"And criminally stupid of them. They're all idiots, you know."

"Yes."

"I  _really_  don't know why you even WANT to work with them."

"Because...it's...well... because." Sherlock sighed, turned away from the window and flopped down in his arm chair before picking up his tea and glaring accusingly at it.

"Don't you take your tea with milk?"

"Yes."

"Well, it's not the tea's fault you forgot to buy any. Now, who am I today?"

Sherlock took a disconsolate sip of his tea, looked at Jim and smirked. "A gay IT worker?"

Jim laughed. " _Geeeeze_...Don't go telling my girlfriend that!"

Sherlock snorted, grinning. "Girlfriend? New?"

"Yes...couple days. Nice girl. Sweet, loyal, affectionate...BORING. Has her uses, but I think I'll have to shake her off soon...I was hoping the gay thing would send her on her way, but of  _course_ , I when visited her today she didn't pick up on a  _thing_ , making it seem entirely likely that she would have to literally catch me in the act of snogging some bloke in a supply closet before she puts the pieces I've given her together. People. Ugh. HATE them."

Sherlock laughed, sipping at his tea again, then grimacing. " _Tell_  me about it."


	5. Chapter 5

"Ouch!"

The man named John pulls his hands back from the slightly swollen wrist he's examining and looks up into the eyes of the young woman to whom it is attached with a sympathetic smile. "Sorry about that...but the good news is, it looks as though you just gave it a good sprain - nothing broken. I'll wrap it for you, and get you a prescription for some painkillers a little stronger than you can get over the counter, but as long as you are careful and let it heal, you should be good as new again in just a couple weeks."

The woman smiles, relieved, tucking a strand of dark blonde hair behind her ear. "Thank you...sorry if I overreacted a bit there...I'm sometimes a bit of a baby concerning pain-you must find me quite foolish...and to have injured it trying to text and walk...this is so embarrassing."

"No need to apologize," he says as he picks up a roll of elastic bandage. "Sprains hurt quite a lot. I did a number on my ankle climbing a tree when I was 10-well...the falling part of climbing," he laughs lightly, eliciting an answering smile from the woman. "Of course, my mum yelled at me for a solid hour-in the official way of mothers everywhere letting their children know how relieved they are that they didn't actually crack their skulls open." This time he coaxes a soft chuckle from the injured woman. "Anyway, I was sitting there with her telling me all the ways in which I could and likely would die, with my sister standing in the doorway behind her, grinning like the Cheshire Cat because for once  _I_  was the one in trouble, and all I could think was how cruel my mum was not caring a bit for all the pain I was in. I mean, of course she DID, but at the time I was sure she was just the cruelest mother in all of Britain." He tucks the end of the bandage under and fixes it in place. "There you go. All done. That's not too tight, is it?"

"What? Already? I didn't feel a thing."

"Then I will my clever plan of telling you stories of my adolescent idiocy quite successful."

"Well, it worked. Or you just have very gentle hands...and no, it's not too tight at all. Just right. You might be the best emergency care doctor I've ever visited."

"How flattered should I be? I would hope that isn't too long of a list."

"Come on now, I'm a woman who thinks she can type messages on her phone while navigating London streets, clearly can not, and persists in the attempt anyway. I'm unable to walk and chew gum, yet I have attempted to learn rock climbing, sky diving and racquetball. The latter, by the way, resulting in by far the worst of my A&E visits. But, of all the doctors I've met with, you are absolutely my favorite. No-nonsense, funny, magical painless treatment - truly amazing."

His cheeks pinken slightly and he feels his ears warm. "Just doing my job ma'am." he responds, putting on an overblown American cowboy accent. She gifts him with another laugh. "So, um..." He clears his throat. "I'll just write you that prescription, then, and I'm going to need you to come back in two weeks so I can make sure everything is healing up nice and proper. The pharmacist will give you a pamphlet on proper care...and for god's sake, don't wrap it too tight - if your fingers start turning purple, that is a very  _bad_  sign, and a bad color for fingers."

He glances at her chart, scribbles a few quick notes on his prescription pad, then tears off the top sheet and hands it to her. "Two weeks, Miss Morstan."

"Thank you, Doctor Watson."


	6. Chapter 6

Another body. High school track athlete.

"You know who's doing it, don't you?"

"Are you guessing?"

"I don't guess."

"You do sometimes. A little."

Sherlock stood in his habitual spot, looking out over Baker street, back-lit by the afternoon outside. "Educated guesses. Deductions. I know you don't afford those suits by doing anything the government approves of."

"You'd be surprised at what the government approves of."

"Not really. I have a brother."

"Oh yes...the estimable Mycroft Holmes.  _Minor government official_." Jim laughed and propped his feet on the coffee table in front of him, legs crossed at the ankle.

"I'm mostly certain that you are responsible for that bank blowing up in Dubai last week."

"Oooh...was it the souvenir I brought you?"

"Among other things."

Jim grinned, stretching his arms lazily behind him and lacing his fingers on the nape of his neck. "Anything else?"

"A stolen book in Dublin and it's return. A mid-level civil agent missing in Berlin. A Swiss financial company suffering from catastrophic data loss Tuesday."

"I must be getting careless."

"We both know I haven't learned anything you didn't want me to." Sherlock paused, fishing a pack of cigarettes out of the pocket of his dressing gown. He didn't speak until after tilting back his head and letting a cloud of smoke swirl from his lungs. "I could turn you in."

"You could. Maybe."

"I  _should_  turn you in."

"Should? How pedestrian."

"You do bad things."

"I do. I absolutely  _do_."

For the next minute, the silence in the flat was broken only by Sherlock's quiet exhales of blue-grey smoke.

Jim shifted in his chair and looked at the slim silhouette in front of the window. "Do you know what I also do?" When Sherlock didn't reply, he continued, undeterred. "I have  _fun_. No one tells me I can't go where I want and build puzzles and better mousetraps-well, I suppose, strictly speaking,  _everyone_  tells me I can't..." He raises his voice an octive to a whiny simper,  _"Oh no...you mustn't! Oh you_ can't _go in there! Oh DO stop killing me!"_ He pulled out his phone and glanced at the screen, muttering under his breath "(Idiots...I am surrounded by bloody...)...Where was I? Oh right,  _everyone_  tells me I can't...but I... _just don't listen to them._ "

Sherlock continued to smoke in silence.

Jim exhaled loudly and pushed himself to his feet. "Right then. Must be off. Business is a demanding mistress." At the door he paused, glancing over his shoulder. "I'm flying to Vienna on Wednesday. Do you want to come with?"

Sherlock took a breath, took another drag of his cigarette, continuing to look down on Baker Street. "Okay. Yes."


	7. Chapter 7

The man named John walks into the exam room, eyes skimming the chart in his hand. He looks up and sees the woman perched on the table and smiles.

"Miss Morstan. Did the wrist heal up well?"

"Oh, just Mary, please. I think so...but I'm here so you can tell me for sure, aren't I?"

"I will give the sprain an examination of course, but only you could tell me if there had been any unexpected soreness, swelling, anything like that. Injuries of this type can be tricky and sometimes we can miss something, or if the patient doesn't follow instructions properly, and insists on taxing the area before it is healed..." While he speaks he gently lifts her arm and runs gentle fingers over her skin, probing lightly at the joint and flexing her wrist slowly, looking at her face periodically for signs of discomfort. "...but in this case, it seems you followed them to the letter. I pronounce you nearly good as new. You might want to avoid heavy contact sports, handsprings, and grappling for a few more weeks yet, but you should be able to return to most normal activities without a problem."

"Well, there go my cat burglary plans for the evening."

He grins. "I think safest to put that on hold, yes. I mean, the last thing you want is to have your wrist give out when you are suspended stories up with a bag of jewels. You'd end up right back in my exam room before morning."

"I can't say that outcome is the worst one I've heard," she says, then blushes, apparently not having intended to give voice to that particular thought.

"Um, yes...well...um...you would probably get a bit more than a sprain, and the healing period would...um...be a bit more," John stammers, trying for a brisk professional tone and falling spectacularly short.

"Yes, that  _would_  cut into my social life a bit. Have a holiday planned in Greece next month, and it wouldn't do to be in a body cast at the time. Hard to enjoy a beach that way," Mary says, John's fluster somehow helping her regain her equilibrium.

"And, well...the prison sentence. That makes it rather hard to get away," John says, eyes twinkling.

"I'd make a daring escape."

"In a full body cast? I don't think so. I'm a doctor. I know these things."

"Ahh. Well then, you'd have to just...hide the jewels inside the plaster for me. "

"Making me an accomplice to your life of crime?"

"Absolutely. You seem the competent type. After I healed we could run away to the Maldives and live on tropical drinks and sunshine."

John blushes, grinning. "As lovely as that sounds, I'm afraid I have to draw a line. Absolutely no cat burglary tonight. Not for another...say...three weeks, just to be safe. Or other potentially wrist straining activities. Basically, if it hurts, stop doing what you are doing. If it keeps hurting, phone me." He reaches into the pocket of his lab coat, pulls out his card and hands it to her. "My mobile's on there, so if you need medical advice or...I don't know...an alibi?" She laughs, her head falling back, and he tries not to admire the smooth line of her neck.

She gathers her belongings and leaves, thanking him. Five minutes later, his mobile buzzes in his pocket and he frowns at the unfamiliar number before accepting the call.

"Hello? This is Doctor John Watson."

"Hello...this is Mary. Morstan."

"Attempting a B&E already?"

He hears her laugh through the phone and in his mind, John sees the way her hair had tumbled over her shoulders when she had joked with him earlier, and how the hollow of her throat had curved in just above the collar of her shirt.

"Um...no...not tonight. Heeding medical advice and all."

"Quite right...so what can I help you with, Mary? Is your wrist..."

"No...no...it's fine...um. Well. Um. The thing is..." He hears her pause and take a steadying breath. "Here's the thing. I hope you don't find this too forward, or that I wasn't totally and completely misreading the situation, but I was wondering if you might want to go out some time."

"Oh! Um-"

"If you don't, that's fine, really it is...I just...you are nice and smart and funny and attractive and I would kick myself if I didn't at least ask."

"It's only...I'm your doctor, so...I'm not really allowed to date my patients. I'd have to-"

"Oh. Yes. Fine. Understand completely. Sorry." She hangs up before he can respond.

He rings her back, and she answers, sounding wary and embarrassed. "Yes? I am sorry, I really should have known...I just didn't think-"

"Mary, wait, please!" He cuts into her rambling with a sigh. He waits a moment to be sure she is listening, then hearing only her breathing on the other side of the line, continues. "I was only going to say," he says, more gently, "that I'd have to find someone to take you over, professionally. Which I can. And will. And I would very much like to go out with you."

"Oh." Mary pauses for long enough that he wonders if she has hung up or his phone has lost the signal. Then she says, "Really?"

"Yes. Very much. Shall I call you when I've gotten everything sorted?"

He can hear the smile in her voice. "Yes. Yes please."


	8. Chapter 8

Sherlock's phone chirped from his pocket. Mycroft again. He ignored it.

Jim plopped down gracelessly on the other side of the cafe table with a croissant and a cup of coffee.

Sherlock looked up from his phone. "You didn't get me a coffee."

"Want a coffee? Counter's right there."

Sherlock eyed the line for drinks morosely.

Jim rolled his eyes. " _I_  stood in line."

"What happened to your charming no rules philosophy?"

"You think it's REALLY worth the the effort of ...I don't know, taking a hostage, blowing up a building, killing the other patrons...just to get a coffee three and a half minutes faster?"

Sherlock glared at the pair of calf-eyed honeymooners, the bank executive and pair of upper-class teenagers that were between him and caffeine. "You are aware that there are more...subtle approaches than outright terrorism?" Sighing as if being asked to cut off one of his less necessary extremities, Sherlock reluctantly got to his feet and stepped to the end of the queue, making as thorough a catalog of the the customers ahead of him as he could. He shook his head. This would be so easy it was barely worth his effort. He pulled his mobile out of his pocket, erased the message from Mycroft and rang up his voice mail, for the sake of versimilitude.

"Steven, hi!" he said, pitching his voice to that annoying level that people employed on their mobiles in public that was utterly impossible to ignore. "Oh yes, still on holiday...in queue in some cafe...Vienna, didn't I tell you?...yes...why?..what?...a FIRE? which hotel? Steigenberger?...when?...Well, certainly glad I didn't stay there after all...oh, yes, of course. Is she going to be alright? Well, do please let me know as soon as you hear...oh, I'm up, I'll ring you back in a bit."

Sherlock smiled stepping to the counter to place his order.

Jim quirked an eyebrow when Sherlock sat back down at the table with his cup of coffee. "Fire?" Sherlock took a sip and smiled. "Lucky break they were all rooming in the same hotel,," Jim said before noticing the bank executive speaking frantically into his phone. "Or are employed near it."

"Lucky? I would have said dull."

"You're so petulant this morning! I swear you're like a child sometimes."

"Whatever. What's on today?"

"Oh...thought we might visit the  _Technisches Museum_. Then I've got some business in the afternoon, so you'll have to entertain yourself."

"Does our morning visit have anything to do with your afternoon business?"

"That would be telling."

"Hmm."

"Are you going to try to stop me?"

Sherlock shook his head. "No. That's not why I'm here."

Jim looked at him speculatively. "Are you going to  _help_  me?"

"...No. Not that either."

"Why  _are_  you here?"

Sherlock shrugged and took another sip of his coffee. "You invited me." He paused, fiddled with his phone and continued. "I was bored. Never been to Vienna. You are one of the few people I have met with whom I can carry on a conversation without wanting to stab you through the eye with a fork after two minutes. Wanted to get away from London for a day or two. The usual reasons people go on holiday."

Jim smiled.


	9. Chapter 9

At 7pm, John rings Mary's front bell. He takes her to see a movie first (it is only mildly funny, but he intentionally lets his hand brush hers midway through and as she doesn't move away, he spends the next 40 minutes feeling warmth spread through him as he grazes his knuckles lightly back and forth across hers, so he considers it to have been quite a successful film choice) then to a late dinner at a small Italian restaurant that exceeds expectations by a large margin.

After discussing the merits of the comedy, they begin stepping carefully into the arena of 'getting to know you' questions. She has two sisters (one younger, one older) and grew up in a very average house very slightly in the country. She works for a financial firm now, doing accounts - something that she admits, laughing, that she really does enjoy - she always liked maths, and finds the balancing and recording challenging, satisfying and interesting. He touches only briefly on the subject of his own family (some subjects seem a little heavy for a first date), tells her a little about his time in service, but again, finds himself struggling to find stories to share that won't fill her eyes with horror or pity or the simple and familiar 'I have baggage of my own and don't need to deal with someone else's right now as well'. He sighs and apologizes, she laughs and puts her hand on his knee and tells him not to worry. He smiles into her warm brown eyes and falls a little in love. He clears his throat and continues, telling her about his limp and his cane and his therapist. They both have a second glass of wine and he tells her about his cheap room that is a step up from the friend's house as he doesn't wake his friend with nightmares, and she tells him about her therapist and her early twenties, and her cheeks darken and she won't meet his gaze as she pulls up her sleeve to show him a line of barely visible parallel scars on the inside of her elbow. He traces them gently with a finger as she tells him about how she got past it, and turns pinker as the wine and the feel of his fingers brushing over her skin go to her head.

They hold hands in the cab back to her flat, his thumb rubbing small circles against the inside of her wrist. He walks her to the door and kisses her once, gently and sweetly, and a second time that is less of both and leaves them both slightly breathless, and a third time, chastely, before bidding her a good night and returning to the waiting cab.


	10. Chapter 10

Two more bodies. A primary school teacher and a cab driver in his late middle age. She had died the same as the others in the mysterious epidemic of suicides. He had a contusion on the side of his head and a ruptured annyurism. Apparently she had fought back a bit more than her predecessors.

"There won't be any more, will there?"

"Well, no more of  _those_. People will still  _die_. People will still be murdered. It's even possible that  _I_  might be involved now and again...if you believe that I'm capable of that kind of thing." Jim grinned over his teacup in the armchair he had adopted as his on his visits to 221b.

Sherlock stood staring over the street as usual for a few minutes before exploding into frustrated movement, pacing angrily, fingers tugging his messy curls into greater disarray than usual. "They're just so STUPID! If they had just let me HELP this could have been solved weeks ago! But instead they idiotically keep me away, letting people die left and right...I would have  _seen_  it if they just would have let me..."

"I may have mentioned this before," Jim said, dunking a biscuit in his tea, "but I really don't understand why you WANT to work for them."

Sherlock sighed, shoulders slumping. He removed a book from his arm chair and threw it half-heartedly against the wall before draping himself across the seat. "...I don't either."

"Then  _why_  don't you  _stop_?"

"But it-"

"What do you find so  _enticing_? It isn't the money."

"No."

"It  _isn't_  the company."

Sherlock snorted. "No, definitely not."

"Is it the warm cuddly feeling you get inside from  _helping_  people?"

"No...I...I don't know...maybe."

"Oh  _Sherlock_...I thought more of you than this. I REALLY did. Be  _honest_ , with yourself at least. Does helping  _poor widdle victims_  excite you?"

"Not really. No."

"You like the  _challenge_. You like a puzzle. You like being clever and solving the unsolvable."

"Yes."

"If  _that's_  all you want, I can give it to you. And I won't ever complain about you fondling a corpse. Do that all you like."

"I don't  _fondle_...what are you proposing?"

"Come work for me. With me. We could be unstoppable...and I can give you  _such_  puzzles...leave the angels to fend for themselves. They don't want you...well then, they can't have you."

Sherlock stared at Jim for a long moment. He lit a cigarette. He thought. He sipped at his tea (he was becoming accustomed to drinking it without milk now) he finished his cigarette. He stood up and walked to his spot by the window. He turned his back on the view and faced Jim.

"Okay. Yes."


	11. Chapter 11

John hands Mary a coffee as he sinks down on the bench next to her. She smiles and leans over to kiss his cheek. He blushes. She laughs.

"We've dating two weeks now...I don't know why you still get so flustered when I kiss you."

He turns towards her, smiling. "It isn't a bad thing. I find that I like you quite. It makes me...uncharacteristically shy."

"You? You're so confidant! And so attractive! What have you got to be shy about, then?"

He bumps her shoulder lightly with his own, grinning. "You think I'm hot."

She rolls her eyes in mock resignation. "So shallow. All about the looks you are. Don't care if I like your mind."

"Oh, good point...got to have something to keep you interested when my beauty fades...lets see...history...bit spotty...philosophy...more spotty...current events-"

"Oh, that reminds me! Did you hear they finally solved that serial suicide case?"

"No, no I hadn't, so I'm clearly striking out on current events as well. Off work for two days, and look what happens... Case always seemed a bit off to me...I mean, how do you have serial suicides?"

"Apparently, it was a cabbie...he'd abduct his fares...gives me chills just to think about it."

"But..." John leaned forward frowning, "There weren't any signs of struggle, were there? Nor injections, from what I heard. They brought the bodies to Bart's...I didn't see them myself, but there was talk, of course. Interesting circumstances and all. How did he poison them?"

"I don't know. It didn't say. Doesn't matter much now though, I guess."

John stared across the park, still frowning. "Yeah...no...no I don't suppose it does..."

"I've got to get back to work. We still on for tonight?"

John visibly shook himself out of his thoughts. "Oh, yes. Yes we are. Have a good day at work."

She leaned down and brushed her lips against his cheek again, just to see him blush.


	12. Chapter 12

*chirp*

Text from Mycroft.

Ignore.


	13. Chapter 13

John walks Mary to the door of her flat. As he leans in to kiss her, she keeps hold of his hand.

"Do you..." she pauses. "Do you want to come up?" she murmurs against his lips.

"Yes, very much. Are you sure?"

"Of course I'm sure." She sinks into a kiss that leaves them both quickly breathless. "Plus, it's third date tradition."

"Is this our third date?"

"Yes, now go send your cab away and come inside."

She waits on the stoop as John walks to the curb, exchanges brief words with the cabbie (she was never going to look at cabs the same, she really wasn't) and smiles as he walks back towards her.

"I hate to argue with your math," he says as he reaches her, "but I think you may have miscalculated. This isn't our third date."

"Really?" She arches an eyebrow at him. "I  _am_  a highly paid accountant...I certainly hope you don't repeat such slanderous allegations within my bosses' hearing."

John holds up a hand, ticking off fingers. "Date one, movie, dinner at Angelo's." She nods. He continues. "Date two, that truly dreadful independent play your sister got us tickets for, followed by ice cream sundaes." She nods again. He looks at her significantly. "Date  _three_ , coffee in the park this morning."

Her eyes open wide and she grins. "Oh dear me! You have clearly turned my head, Doctor Watson, and I can no longer even do simple sums. That would make this date four, then, wouldn't it?"

"I do believe it would, Miss Morstan."

"Well, in that case, we have not a moment to loose!" She grabs his hand as she unlocks the door and and they tumble through, laughing and kissing.


	14. Chapter 14

"So, what shall we do first?"

"You promised me a challenge."

"There are a couple codes I've been trying to break that are absolute BEASTS."

"Maybe."

"I'm still trying to figure out who stole that Rembrandt before I could get my hands on it for a collector."

"Some American...con man working for the feds now...that case is ancient."

"We could look for the Arc of the Covenant."

Sherlock just looked at him.

"We could..." Jim sounded as casual as he knew how, "mess with The Yard."

Sherlock sat up straighter.

Jim sighed. "Petty. I swear, you can be  _such_  a child."


	15. Chapter 15

John smiles at Mary as the morning sun shines makes a halo of her tousled hair.

"What? Oh, don't look at me like that...haven't even brushed my hair yet. I must look a mess."

"You look lovely. You look sexy. I want to take you back to bed."

Mary grins and climbs into his lap. Her kisses taste like toothpaste and his taste like tea.

"If only. You made me late last week, and I got quite the scolding."

"Oh fine then, be responsible and leave this poor, sexy man to his own devices, lonely and unsatisfied." He gives her his best put-upon expression and picks up the paper, glancing at the headline. Scotland Yard Embarrassed. What is that about?

"Unsatisfied? Ohhhh...I'll  _give_  you unsatisfied, Doctor Watson."

Mary isn't late to work, but it's a close thing. John nabs her paper on the way out and reads the article that caught his attention on the bus. Apparently, The Yard had been careless with evidence and witness testimony and brought in the wrong man...the very wrong man, a pillar of his community with rock solid alibis for every crime they were charging him with. John shook his head. What was police work coming to these days, if the force couldn't even keep the evidence from one case properly labeled and stored?


	16. Chapter 16

Text from Mycroft: Unsavory Company, little brother. You need to stop this now, or I will. MH.

Respond: Dieting always makes you cranky. SH. P.S. Piss off.

Text to Jim: Must find more secure flat. SH

Reply: i have one in mind. you can move monday. JM


	17. Chapter 17

John scrolls through the news feed on his phone while he waits outside Mary's building. What is going on with Scotland Yard? It's as though they all lost about half of their IQ points overnight. Another mishandled case, this time a smuggling ring. Got away clean, multiple bodies in their wake. No arrests.

He jumps slightly as a body invades his space while he is distracted, but his subconscious quickly picks up on a familiar tread and the smell of peony lotion and catalogs them as  _Mary_. She apologizes. Laughing he turns and kisses her, then hands her the coffee he brought her.

They walk hand in hand through the park across from the high rise in which she works.

Before she goes back to the office she pauses catching his hand in hers. "There's something I've been wanting to ask you."

He intertwines their fingers. "Yes?"

"I'm going to Greece in two weeks."

He pouts playfully at her. "Yes, don't I know it. Off surrounded by all those strapping Greek men. Won't want to come back at all."

She shoves his shoulder and laughs. "John, I'm serious."

"Me too! I see you being seduced away by strapping Greek men as very detrimental to a relationship that I'm liking very much, thank you."

"Well, that's why you should come with me."

"What? Won't that spoil your holiday, have your boyfriend tagging along with your old school friends?"

"No, you idiot. I like you tagging along. I like it a lot. It's becoming one of my favorite things. And my friends will too. They will adore you as much as I do. I know they will."

"That does sound-" he paused, thinking and then groaned. "Wait, no, I can't."

"Oh, John...why not?"

"Doctor Sawyer just went on leave. I agreed to cover her shifts that week."

"Oh." She looks crestfallen for a moment, then straightens her shoulders and smiles. "Well, it's only 4 days. That's nothing. And I'll bring you something lovely."

He leans forward and kisses the tip of her nose. "Bring me you."

"Deal. You're a cheap date."

"You already knew that. Have a good day. I love you."

They both pause as the words come out of his mouth. He meets her eyes firmly. He can't take the words back, but he finds that he doesn't want to. He means them.

Her smile lights up the morning. "I love you too. Don't work too hard tonight, Doctor Watson."

She walks through the glass doors still smiling brightly as John stands staring after her. As he turns to go, he almost bumps into dark eyed a man an inch or so taller than himself in a tailored suit. The man seems to also be watching Mary as she enters the firm doors.

John grins at the other man and shrugs his shoulders. "Sorry mate. She's taken."

Had it not been for the persistent twinge in his hip, he would have skipped on the way to catch the bus.


	18. Chapter 18

"I think I've found an answer to my little problem."

Sherlock looked up from his laptop screen. "That financial place? Hollister? You finally break the firewall?"

"I don't need to."

"Handy. Why not?"

"Because people are idiots."

"I tell you that all the time. I thought you were listening."

"I don't need to break in. I'll just make someone who already  _is_  in do it  _for_  me."

"Clever. I need some fingers and some kitchen solvents for an experiment."

"I'll get you some."

"From where?"

"Does it matter?"

Sherlock considered the question for a moment, then shrugged. "No, not really."


	19. Chapter 19

John hangs up his lab coat and scrubs in his locker and takes a quick shower before changing into jeans and a button-down and heading out into the breaking day. Two more days. Mary will be back in two more days.

It can't pass quickly enough.

The shops won't be open for a couple more hours, so he finds a coffee shop and reads the paper while he waits, picking at his pastry and shaking his head over the latest news. The world is really going to pot, isn't it? Missing heiress. No leads. South American guerrilla group suddenly resurging after two years of silence, coinciding with the loss of certain cultural treasures from the Brazilian National Historical museum and Argentinean Consulate. Brazil accusing Argentinean nationals. Argentina blaming the US. Political disputes in the US resulting in the deaths of two American citizens and a college student from Poland with ties to the Polish and French governments during a rally. Two deep cover agents, one English, one Russian, outed and executed, all their files and information compromised. (Compromised? What exactly do they mean by that, John wonders.) Spanish prison break. Bombing of the cars of two United Nations representatives (Algeria and Congo). John sighs, checks the time on his phone and sets down the paper, finishing his coffee and throwing away the remaining half of his danish. The shops will be open by the time he limps the three blocks.

At five past nine, he pauses a moment to rest his leg before stepping inside jeweler's. He won't be able to get anything opulent, but he doesn't think Mary will mind. He hopes not. He hopes she thinks it's the gesture that counts. She knows he isn't wealthy, and he hasn't had time to save, but he knows what he wants and he hopes she wants it too.

He hopes she says yes.


	20. Chapter 20

Sherlock's phone chirped from the coffee table next to him. He looked up from his laptop long enough to see the screen. Text from Mycroft. Tedious complaints again.

He reached out and was just able to nab his phone with the tips of his fingers.

Text to Jim: Mycroft got my new number. SH

A few moments later the phone chirps again.

Text from Jim: unfortunate but bound to happen. i'll change it tomorrow. toss that one.

Text to Jim: I'm bored. SH

Text from Jim: i'm busy.

Text to Jim: BORED. SH

Text from Jim: i think seb is working on something. mole in the cardiff office. loose the phone.

Text to Jim: Cardiff? Ugh. Fine. SH

Text from Jim: you'll love it. maybe you'll meet an alien.

Text to Jim: What? SH

Text from Jim: you really are out of touch with popular culture, aren't you? maybe you should watch telly instead.

Text to Jim: It's irrelevant. SH

Text from Jim: not entirely. now go play. daddy's working. i'll have a present for you when you get back. loose the phone.

Sherlock rolled his eyes and tossed the phone onto the table again before closing his email. (G. Lestrade -  _Can you give me any help on this? (Off record, of course_.) Delete. G. Lestrade - _Really looking into getting you allowed back._ Delete. M. Homes - _Sherlock, I really need to meet with you._  Delete Delete Delete. Home Remedies -  _Is your lover satisfied?_ Irrelevant. Delete.)

Sherlock got up from the couch and strode to his bedroom to pack for an overnight in Cardiff. Aliens? Seriously, sometimes Jim was strange even by Sherlock's standards.

Ten minutes later he left his new flat (a clean, modern high rise in mid town) and headed for the train station, tossing the now-compromised mobile into a passing rubbish truck on his way.

Cardiff...he could deal with. Grudgingly. Working with Sebastian Moran...all in all could be worse. The man wasn't unintelligent, had a good work ethic, didn't blabber on just to fill silence and tolerated Sherlock as well as anyone...better than most, actually, considering how well most tolerated Sherlock. He also had a glaringly obvious man-crush on Jim that he thought no one knew about and that the Consulting Criminal (Sherlock still smiled at Jim's chosen designation) exploited shamelessly, which meant that he was rather stubbornly loyal. And an excellent shot. And while mole hunts were often rather dull, the last one he had been on with Seb had ended in a chase across the Paris rooftops in February. EXCITING.

The day was looking up.


	21. Chapter 21

John opens one eye and squints blearily at the time on his phone. Two in the afternoon. He's only been in bed...three hours? What woke him?

He shakes his head a little more to clear it and looks at his phone again. New text from Mary. Strange...she usually avoids texting him during the day when she knows he is working that night. He opens it. A photo. Slightly out of focus, from an odd angle. Man with dark hair and dark eyes in a cotton button-up..no one john knows. Accidental photo and text then? Visual version of a pocket dial? John almost deletes it, but something makes him pause, then move his finger over the 'save' button instead. He doesn't know why, not on three hours of sleep, but something is bothering him.

His dreams are filled with gunfire and scorching sand.


	22. Chapter 22

This was better than Sherlock had expected.

Okay, tied up and tortured was a strange definition of 'better' by most people's scales, but then, Sherlock wasn't most people. And the mole, brilliant! Not working for Mycroft's men, or any other members of the upright citizens brigade, but from an honest-to-god rival faction. Armenian, originally, but based on their clothes, weapons and colloquialisms, in long-standing French employ. Incidentally, two of them were dating the same woman. One of them knew about it. The other did not.

Sherlock estimated the time it would take him pick his handcuffs against how long it would take Sebastian to locate him, against how long before a rib was broken in the wrong way and punctured something he might need.

When Sebastian arrived, Sherlock was wrapping a piece of duct tape over a deep gash in his side and wincing slightly when he breathed. There were two dead Armenians sprawled on the floor in front of him and a third slumped against the far wall.

"Sebastian," he asked, squatting down next to the nearest dead man and trying to ignore his protesting ribs, "what do aliens have to do with Cardiff?"

The mercenary looked at him strangely, and shrugged his shoulders.

"I thought as much. Hmm. Hair dye. Cheap. Strange."

Sebastian grunted and nodded towards the door.

"Yes, a moment." He grabbed hold of a tuft of hair and gave it a quick yank, sealed the clump in a baggie he pulled from his pocket. He looked back up at Sebastian. "Have you got a cigarette?"

"I quit."

Sherlock sighed. "Everyone's doing that these days." He rummaged quickly through the corpse's pockets and found a half-full pack and a lighter. "Brilliant."

Cringing, he heaved himself to his feet, strode over to the corner where his coat had been tossed and tried not to curse as he bent down to pick it up. Then he straightened again, and decided he had no reason not to curse and gave into the impulse as pain radiated down his left side. "Fuck. I liked this shirt too." He carefully put his coat on and lit one of his pilfered smokes as he followed Sebastian out of the warehouse.


	23. Chapter 23

John jerks painfully into consciousness at six, sweating and shaking. He has had enough experience waking up this way to know he won't fall back asleep, so he puts on the kettle and steps into the shower.

Something nags at him as the hot water pounds on his tense shoulders, but he can't place it, so he dismisses it as lingering uneasiness from his nightmares.

He is halfway through his first cup when he remembers. He grabs his phone, pulling up the image as he sips his tea. Photo, slightly blurry, strange angle. Okay, he didn't dream that then. Not someone he knows...relatively certain not one of Mary's school friends...dark eyes, dark hair. Button down shirt, like half the tourists in Greece wear, pale skin. Nothing...must be an accidental message like he first thought.

Must be.

Something is still tickling at the back of his head though and he can't convince himself to delete the image. He looks closer, looks to see if there is anything else in the photo that might be catching on his mind. Street, buildings, pretty but unfamiliar, nothing to alert him or bother him.

He looks back at the man's face. Dark eyes, dark hair... _something_. Something about Mary's trip? He keeps dwelling on a split-second moment...her with a smile so bright it lights up the foggy London morning and an accompanying burst of joy fluttering under his ribs.

Suddenly his brain spits up a picture of a man in a tailored suit, watching Mary step through the doors of Hollister Financial. Dark eyes. Dark hair.

The tea he has been drinking was clearly liquid nitrogen, if the ball of ice in the pit of his stomach is any indication.

It's probably nothing.

He sends her a quick text: Mary, up early - thinking of you. Miss you. Love you.

He tries not to panic when she doesn't reply immediately.

It's probably nothing.

She's not even expecting him to be awake for another hour at least. She's in Greece to have fun, not mope over her phone waiting for her boyfriend to call. She probably just hasn't even checked for a text yet. Less than two minutes have passed since he sent it.

He tries to keep himself from checking his phone more frequently than once every ten minutes, but if he's already looking at his phone to check the time, checking for new messages is just an eye-flicker away. He thinks about setting a timer, then tells himself not to be ridiculous. Anyway, he doesn't want to drain the battery. He checks five times to make sure that his text notification setting is on. He checks seven to make sure he hasn't accidentally set the phone to silent mode.

He wants to go to the police, but what will he tell them? My girlfriend sent me a blurry photo so I'm worried she's in danger?

He decides he'll tell them exactly that, but only if he doesn't hear from her by the start of his shift.

He tries to relax, to convince himself there is really nothing to worry about. He tries to read, to check his email, to watch clips of cats falling off of things on YouTube, but everything is drowned out by the buzzing in the back of his skull. He leaves an hour early for Bart's (packing his charger in his bag, just in case), but halfway there he calls ahead and lets them know he's had a family emergency and directs his cabby to the nearest police station instead.

It all goes about as well as he could have expected. The officer that helps him is a pretty young woman named Donovan with an annoyed and distracted demeanor. She really seems to be angling for 'sympathetic' when he starts his story, but by the end, she has transitioned fully into 'you are wasting my time'.

"Look", she says, when he tries again to explain the reasons behind his fears, "First off, there's nothing we can to. Do you understand? Nothing. She's not on British soil, she's not been missing more than a day, to put a finer point on it, she isn't even CONFIRMED missing, you aren't her family, and all you have to offer is a blurry photo of a bloke you  _think_  you saw hanging about outside her office building? I hate to tell you what this looks like. You can probably guess."

John stares at her in confusion. "Looks like? What are you talking about?"

The officer raises an eyebrow at him, clearly expecting him to pick up on her line of thought. When he just continues to stare at her, she sighs and shakes her head. "You saw this man outside your girlfriend's office. Now you get a photo of him sent to you from her phone while she's on vacation. You don't think it's possible that...maybe she knows him already? That their meeting wasn't an accident? That maybe the photo wasn't either, but was intended as a message from one or both of them?"

John continues to look at her for a minute, her words sinking in, then frowns at her in disbelief. "What? No. She wanted me to come with. She texts me every day and tells me she misses me. She's only been gone a few days. She's due back tomorrow. You don't know her."

"How long have you two been together, Doctor Watson?"

"A month and a half, roughly?"

"Well, maybe you don't either."


	24. Chapter 24

Sherlock was pleased.

Jim brought him fingers.

"I told you you'd like my present. Of course, if I'd  _known_  those nasty Armenians were going to play so rough with you, I'd have taken theirs instead."

"They were only a minor inconvenience." Sherlock squinted into a beaker holding a 4% bleach solution, and dropped in one finger. Slender, feminine, painted nails.

"I heard you dealt with them efficiently. I would have taken their fingers while they were still alive."

Sherlock felt the corner of his mouth tug up in a smile as he placed the second finger carefully into a high-strength peroxide mixture. "So vindictive, Jim. These are perfect. That they are all from the same person greatly decreases the chances of data anomalies coming from external sources."

"I  _thought_  about painting the nails different colors and dying the skin and making you guess whether they were the same, but it would have been  _so_  much effort...and I thought you might not welcome additional chemicals in your experiments." He watched Sherlock happily place fingers in beakers for a minute. "It doesn't bother you that I cut someone's fingers off?"

"I assume she's dead now." He looked up and saw Jim nod, grinning ferrally. "Well, in that case,  _she_  certainly doesn't care and isn't using them anymore. Why shouldn't  _I_?"

"What if she were still alive?"

Sherlock dropped another finger into a beaker of distilled water, to use as a control and squinted at the markings on the side. "Well, she still wouldn't be using them anymore, would she? Why on earth aren't these measured in metric? I didn't think you could GET scientific equipment that wasn't metric."


	25. Chapter 25

A week has passed since John received Mary's text.

The small jewelry box that John keeps on his nightstand mocks him. He wants to return the circlet of metal with the small stone to the store, but that feels too much like making her nebulous disappearance into a solid, factual,  _goneness_. At the same time, he feels that he may have somehow jinxed himself/her/them with the purchase. So soon, so early...a month and a half, for crying out loud. But both the soldier and doctor elements of his life had taught him nothing more strongly than how short life can be, and he knows (knew) he wants (wanted) to be with Mary forever. Once he made that decision, he didn't hesitate. He had planned to ask her on the night she got home. Now the box sits untouched, five days past it's 'open by' date.

He has tried everything he could think of. He went to the police again and spoke to a grey-haired DI that seemed a bit more competent and understanding than the woman that had so blithely dismissed his worries previously, but, though he was sympathetic and open to John's concerns, what it really came down to was that there was nothing The Yard could do.

He had tried ringing the Greek police, and even eventually gotten through to someone who spoke English and was willing to speak to him, but who had, after hearing his story, told him about the same thing that Donovan had: there was nothing they could do and his girlfriend probably ran off with a lover.

He doesn't know with which friends she had gone on vacation - he just hadn't had the chance to meet them yet. He and Mary had been a combination of busy and wrapped up in each other that somewhat precluded large amounts of socializing, and her companions hadn't been her closest friends, just chums from her school days, getting together the way people always talked about doing. He had tried checking her facebook page, but she used it so rarely that it contained neither pertinent information on her acquaintances nor touchstone where others trying to contact her might leave messages.

He even thought of breaking into her flat to look for information, or hacking her email...but, illegality aside, he simply doesn't possess the skill set necessary for either activity.

So he waits. He paces. He tries to figure out who to call next. He sends Mary emails and text messages of worry, and messages of love and messages asking that if she  _has_  run off with someone else, to please just let him know so he can stop fearing for her life.

A week has passed since John received Mary's text, when Hollister Financial is hit hard. In 15 minutes, the esteemed and ancient London institution is rocked to it's foundation from within. Accounts are drained, client information ransacked, and sensitive data scraped out like frosting.

A missing woman from the accounts department is wanted for questioning in connection.

Her family is contacted, and her friends, but for some reason, no one wants to speak to John. He is too new, perhaps. None of the people he had begged and pleaded and bargained with and berated after receiving her message had, apparently, ever filled out any reports, as his evidence was so thin, and likely amounting to nothing more than a strayed lover.

A week and two days have passed since Mary's last text when John receives an email directing him to the second page of the paper.

The Greek police had located a the body of a woman thought to possibly be the missing accountant, but there is no further information at this time. There is, however, a badly grainy photograph of the woman's face. John doesn't need further confirmation. He would recognize the soft sweep of her cheek, the arch of her brows, the curve of her jaw above the long line of her neck from just a few meager pixels. From one, maybe. This photograph is more than sufficient.

He gets the ring out of the box on the dresser and lifts his ID tags from around his neck, slips the small circle of gold with the smaller stone onto the chain and puts the tags back on, tucking them under the collar of his shirt. The new addition seems to burn against his skin, but he knows he is imagining the sensation. He holds the empty box and cries for a long time.

When he next checks his email, there is a new message from the same unknown account. He almost doesn't open it, but John Watson is not a man to hide from the dark.

There are three photographs.

One is a photograph of a pale, unsmiling man with dark, wavy hair, striking features and light-colored eyes.

The second is the photograph from Mary's message.

The third seems to be a shot from a CCTV. The two men are walking next to each other. The first man is tall, wearing a long wool coat. The other man (Dark eyes, Dark hair) is dressed again in a tailored suit, his hair neatly styled.

Below the photographs are an address, a date and a time.


	26. Chapter 26

Email from G. Lestrade -  _Please contact, have gotten authorization required_ (delete.)

Email from M. Homes -  _Must meet with you. Imperative. Don't delete this._  (delete)

Email from G. Lestrade -  _Really need your help, S, stop sulking_  (delete.)

Email from Improbable -  _New project_

Sherlock smiled as he opened the email and laughed when he saw the address. Jim had such a flair for the dramatic.


	27. Chapter 27

John arrives at the address (a school) three hours early.

The manila envelope delivered to his door by special courier had contained only minimal information, but it had been enough. John Watson has always been a determined man, a dedicated man and a man willing to do the right thing.

And it's not like he has anything left to loose.

He is carrying a canvas bag that had been tucked underneath some unremarkable odds and ends in the trunk of the unremarkable rented car since the day before. The bag is still smudged with dust and has sand nestled indelibly into the seams. But John is currently more concerned with what is inside the bag. The supplies he needed were much easier to come by than he had expected, especially on such short notice. He has a strong inkling that his mysterious pen pal might have had something to do with the ease of his acquitions. The bag is heavy. Luckily he hasn't needed his cane in days. Apparently his therapist was right. He laughs under his breath. Timing.

He walks through the corridors until he finds the athletics department and enters the locker room to prepare, the innocent smells of cleaning supplies and chlorine juxtaposed incongruously against his systematic actions.

Soon he is ready. Now all he has to do is wait.


	28. Chapter 28

Sherlock navigated the familiar hallways to the pool from memory. The tang of chlorine tickled his memory as he turned slowly, looking for some clue regarding Jim's newest mystery.

"I'm here, now what do you want?"

No one answered.

"The pool, midnight? Really Jim...this isn't a spy thriller."

He caught a movement out of the corner of his eye and turned to face-

A short man with dark blonde hair, in a parka a few sizes too big for him.

"Who are you?"

The man had a determined posture and when he spoke, his voice was calm and level. "I'm John Watson. I'm-"

"A doctor. A soldier too." Sherlock strode closer, curious. "Do you have a message for me?"

"You could say that."

"What did you use the cane for?"

"What?"

"Up until recently you were walking with a cane. Now you aren't and don't appear to need it. Why?"

"Limp. Psychosomatic."

"Hmm." Sherlock took a few more steps, tilting his head. Something about this short, blonde man with his hard eyes and resolute shoulders was...intriguing. "So, what's the message? Jim took all the trouble for this dramatic set-up and then couldn't even be bothered to meet me himself? Typical."

"No, we're waiting for him, actually."

"Oh." Something is odd about the doctor's (soldier's) parka. Sherlock is about to move closer when the door at the far end of the pool swings open.

"This had  _better_  be important," Jim says as he draws nearer. "I am in the middle of some rather sensitive work and don't really have time for your adolescent theatrics this week. I mean really, Sherlock. The Pool? Midnight? What are you, a noir detective?"

The doctor soldier (John) laughed abruptly, a sound strangely loud and echoing in the cavernous room. When Jim glared at him the man sobered, but the smile still lingered at the corners of his mouth. "Sorry, I'm sorry...Just...when your friend came in, he said...well he asked almost the same thing."

Huh. So he had. But there was something about that-

"Who are you?" Jim demanded, closing the distance between himself John doctor soldier Watson. "Oh but I  _recognize_  you." He tucked his hands in his pockets, assessing the man in the parka as he circled closer in his lazy, slouching walk. "You're the  _boyfriend_ , aren't you?" Jim cringed mockingly. "Sorry mate.. _took her_."

If they had both said that...

"So, you're here to what...shoot me?  _Whine_  at me? Chivalrously beat me to a pulp? Sherlock, why have you brought-"

The problem with the near identical reactions occurred to both genius minds at once, just as John was letting his coat fall open.


	29. Chapter 29

John had been in Afghanistan.

He has seen this done...not many times, but even once would have been sufficient, especially if that once had been the time the nine-year-old girl had walked up the convoy a few hundred yards ahead of his own transport and left as her legacy a gaping hole and a roadblock of wreckage.

He has never before understood how anything could be important enough to take that kind of drastic action. It was one of the tactics that had always seemed, to him, so extreme, so drastic and unnecessary.

Now he understands.

The world calms and slows around him, like he is moving under water - not inhibiting, but stretching the seconds into minutes, hours, decades. The tall, pale man with the striking features (Sherlock?) and the shorter man in the suit (Dark eyes, Dark hair) (Jim?) are both almost close enough to touch, and there is no way either of them can move away fast enough. The second man seems to be making an effort to do so, John notices as his fingers move (slowly, so slowly, like a film viewed frame by frame), but the tall pale man isn't moving. No muscles are starting to tense, his mouth isn't opening in terror, he is simply staring at the man in the unseasonable parka and semetex vest, trying to read him like he is the most interesting book ever written.


	30. Chapter 30

Sherlock's eyes widened slightly. Fascinating.

That was the only word Sherlock could fit to the man in front of him. He was vaguely, briefly, aware of Jim making a futile bid for escape, but all he could do was stare at at the man standing in front of him, burning with purpose.

Blazing with it.

And that's just the man...such a small, ordinary frame, to contain such fire. The explosives almost seem superfluous.

He longs for time to unpuzzle the man..maybe...oh, right. No then.

Well that's sad.

Fractions of a second before the button is depressed by sturdy (doctor's/soldier/s healing/killing) fingers, he wonders why he has a deep compulsion, rather than to leap for safety like Jim, to leap forward, to (how?) protect the weathered (soldier doctor wounded one sibling lunch two streets away simple meal lost loved one tea with cream) man in front of him.

Then he wonders nothing at all.

End.


End file.
